


Hand Prints

by Hardwood_Studios



Category: Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hardwood_Studios/pseuds/Hardwood_Studios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A late night visit from the Joker, and Bruce is left with finger-shaped-bruises and the shattered remains of his ego. [The Joker/Bruce Wayne]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand Prints

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: This was inspired by repeated viewings of the Dark Knight, a ridiculous amount of Lady Gaga [I mean really, Bad Romance? Monster? Is it just me, or do the lyrics for those songs just scream ‘Batman and Joker, bitches’?], lots and lots of Youtube, and...that one song by Maroon Five. I think it’s called ‘One More Night’. I really can’t be sure. 
> 
> Just a heads up, because I’m nice like this, there is no plot to be found. Read it backwards, sideways, squint, it’s just smut.

Even when caught up in the cloying clutches of sleep, Bruce could tell when something just wasn’t right. It was a natural instinct that made his chest tighten, his breath shorten, and it was something his unconscious mind was trained to recognize. Danger was close.

His eyelids snapped open, despite their heaviness. His eyes were sharper than they had any right to be, as they searched the surrounding darkness for any impending threat. He found nothing. His penthouse was silent and empty. Faint sprinkles of moonlight streamed through the panoramic windows, chasing away shadows and lighting up the dark space.

Then he was struck with a sudden awareness, and he felt a great many things he knew he should not be feeling. The arm curled around his naked waist like an iron snake, spindly fingers massaging gentle circles into his jutting hip, hot puffs of breath rolling across the back of his neck, the chest [hard and hot and fucking there] molded to his back. His brain stuttered, it took a painfully long second for it to reboot itself.

“Fina-ll-y awake, Brucey?”

That voice. That voice. Bruce went rigid, his eyes popping wide enough to hurt. Why [for fuck’s sake!] was the Joker in his penthouse? In his bed! Holding him...?

The confusion was strong and sudden, so much so that he couldn’t summon the proper rage he needed. 

“You aren’t - heh - glad to see me? Or, uh...should I say feel me?” The clown crooned. Bruce could feel those scarred lips brushing against him with every, slick word. That was all it took. He tumbled over the side of the bed and rolled into a defensive crouch several feet away.

His body was tightly coiled, waiting for the chance to spring up. The painted menace was lounging in his bed, head propped in his hand, acting for all the world as if he belonged there. His grin was both lazy and maniacal. His inner bat was seething. “Joker.” He snarled, his voice dipping into the deeper, gravelly tones of his alter ego. 

“At your service.” He purred, his tongue clicking noisily on the ‘t’. 

“How did you...” He tapered off into terse silence. There were too many questions to ask, answers he should be demanding. How did the Joker manage to infiltrate his supposedly impenetrable penthouse? How did he know where to find him? How did he discover the true identity of Gotham’s Dark Knight, her most closely guarded secret?

“Cat got your tongue, Brucey Boy?” The Joker chuckled lowly, his usual insanity tainted with something darker. “Or maybe I should use your pr-o-per title, hm? Batman.” His voice was no more than a primal growl when speaking the vigilante’s namesake, and it sent a shiver to curling down Bruce’s spine. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not the Batman.” It was possibly the most transparent lie Bruce had ever told. The Joker cackled loudly, flopping onto his back. “And I - heh - thought my jokes were bad!” He howled. Faster than Bruce could’ve anticipated, the crazed clown was off the bed and stalking towards him. “Don’t. Lie. To me.” He enunciated each word with a step forward, and it was all Bruce could do to keep himself from scrambling backwards. He reminded himself that he didn’t need the suit to be better than the Joker. He was still Batman, with or without the cowl and cape. 

“I can see right through that billionaire visage of yours, Bruce. This life, it just doesn’t fit you.” The Joker was crouching in front of him now, mere inches between them. His gaze was intense and assessing and very blue. “And, uh, you don’t exactly have the most loyal bunch of employees.” He snickered. There was only one individual outside of his inner circle that knew the true identity of the Batman.

“Coleman Reese.” He breathed.

“That’s the sniveling little rat. It didn’t take much, a few grenades, and he sang for me so...sweetly.” He scoffed. Maybe it was the alarming lack of sleep [it had to be, it definitely was], but the Joker seemed upset by Reese’s lack of willingness to die for him. Bruce frowned and steadily inched his way backwards. The Joker was unstable at best. Without the protection of his Kevlar, he wasn’t comfortable with their closeness. “What do you want, Joker?” He glared up into that painted face with every bit of inner animosity he possessed. While such a look would have sent most hardened criminals scuttling for a shadow, it earned him a toothy beam from the Joker.

“Don’t look so nervous, Bruce. I just want to...have a little fun?” He oozed sin and danger, his stark white face seemed to be zooming in. Bruce bit back a snarl. “Then I suggest you find an amusement park.” He barked in barely checked fury. 

“Eh heh! Oh, that. Is. Hysterical.” He wiped a pretend tear from the corner of his eye, and smacked his lips in open enthusiasm. “It just wouldn’t be the same without you, Bruce. I, uh...thought we could get to know each other a bit.” That carmine grin widened, those bare hands were suddenly on him. A surprised hiss of breath escaped him, as he felt those hot fingers clamping around his biceps.

"Don't touch me!" Bruce jerked back. The Joker crawled after him.

"Do you know...how disappointed I was when Harvey Dent turned himself over as the Batman? Harvey was just so bland. So...lukewarm." The Joker ranted, gesticulating sharply. "But you - you, you, you - are just too..." The Joker had pinned against the coffee table, their fronts meeting intimately. "...perfect."

Bruce blanched.

"...What?" His voice was quiet and breathy, and he loathed the sound of it. Slowly and very deliberately, the Joker dragged his eyes down the length of him. It was then Bruce suddenly remembered how little clothing he actually wore. His face grew hot under the intense scrutiny. “I didn’t lie, you know. When I said that you...completed me. I meant every word.” His tone was strangely soft.

“You and I, we...are two halves of a per-fectly insane whole.” The Joker was almost whispering. Bruce was stunned into silence, those words ringing sharply in his ears. It was unnerving - frightening - to hear the jester say things like that. His inner bat was a shaking mess in its mental cage.

"You're deranged-" He was silenced by a pair of scarred lips smashing against his own. A foreign tongue filled his mouth, and teeth were sinking into his lower lip. It was smoldering and sudden and aggressive in the best of ways. A startled noise trembled in the back of his throat, and the Joker was all too happy to swallow it up. 

Those hot hands dragged down his sides, gripping him in burning palms, leaving a trail of unnatural warmth in their wake. He was being shoved into the coffee table even harder, his back bowing against the wooden edge. Bruce was lost to this new maelstrom - teeth, fingers, tongue - for the briefest of moments, but he came back to himself in a moment of unforgiving clarity. His anger roared to new heights. 

He jerked his head back, breaking their intimate contact with a ragged gasp, before smashing his forehead against the Joker’s with a loud crack. The world went bright and blurry, and he could feel his brain bouncing on its stem. The Joker let out a bark of pained laughter - “That hurt, Brucey!” - and stumbled backwards in a disorientated tizzy. Bruce made a mad dash for the elevator, despite the fuzz encroaching on the edges of his eyes.

Just as he was frantically slapping his hand over the down button, the Joker crashed into him from behind. A surprised shout escaped him, as they were both sent sprawling to the floor. Bruce lie face down on the cool mahogany, the hard weight of his nemesis settling against him.  
The feeling of cold steel made itself known along the sensitive length of his spine. Bruce tensed. The Joker grinned wickedly, as he dragged his favorite blade down that beautiful back. He watched in absolute hunger as each, individual muscle seemed to quiver underneath the light touch of tapered steel. “What the hell are you - ?”

“At ta ta, try not to move. I really wouldn’t want you to get...hurt, Bruce.” The Joker chuckled. It was a dark, quiet sound that had Bruce holding his breath. He felt fingertips mapping out the back of his thighs, and the wet warmth of a tongue tracing the cut of his shoulder. His breath caught in his throat. The knife was just barely grazing the shallow dip of his lower back, and just as he was contemplating something wholly suicidal - 

His briefs [his last line of defense against handsy psychopaths] were being sliced into unrecognizable strips. Bruce paled to an unhealthy shade. He was naked, underneath the Joker. The Joker. “Eh heh heh! Oh my, Brucey! Look at this gorgeous body you’ve been hiding from me.” Bruce could hear him licking his lips, and it caused his blood to burn. “I think that deserves some punishment, don’t you?” 

There were hands on his hips, pulling him onto his hands and knees. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He snarled, preparing to lash out. Knife or no knife, he wasn’t about to lay down quietly and take whatever punishment the Joker had in mind. The jester’s next words had his blood icing over in his veins.

“I’d think carefully about your next move, Bruce. I’m sure Alfred wouldn’t want to pay the price for your bad behavior.” The Joker murmured against the shell of his ear. Bruce stiffened, his heart beating a bloody tattoo against his chest. No - no, no, no, - not Alfred. “What -” He cleared his throat. “What are you talking about?” 

“He cares for you quite a bit. It would be an awful shame if he were to have a little...accident.” 

Bruce inhaled sharply. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! He couldn’t let anything happen to Alfred. He couldn’t. The man had raised him [patched up his every injury, given him advice when he was too lost to find his way back to the beaten path, cared for him when everyone else lacked the emotional capacity]. His heart clenched. “What do you want from me, Joker?” His voice was soft and broken. The Joker didn’t think he would ever again hear a sound as beautiful as the Batman’s verbal submission

“I just want you to behave for me.” The Joker cantillated. His inner bat was screaming for blood, and Bruce wanted so badly to let him have at it. He wasn’t willing to risk Alfred’s safety. When he felt smoldering hands wander down his back, he could only curl his fingers into a trembling fist. Those fucking hands were slipping, slipping. A choked noise was ripped from him, as he was suddenly opened up [his most intimate orifice exposed!].

Just as he was wrapping his head around the severity of his situation [the utter vulnerability of his position], there was an unfamiliar wetness pushing into him. “Nngh! Joker, wha - ah!” His arms turned to jelly under him, and he was pitching forward. His cheek met intimately with the floor, and his backside was forced out and up. The Joker was licking [nipping, sucking, thrusting] into that gorgeous pink pucker. 

It was more than obvious Bruce had never been subject to such diligent treatment, and the Joker could not be more delighted. He was the first to lay claim to Bruce [his Bats] in such a way, and he would be the last. He would wrench all sounds from that tightly clamped mouth, and relish in every, tiny reaction he knew Bruce would be helpless to contain. He licked a long, sweltering stripe from his perineum to quivering cleft. He was rewarded with a keening whine that settled quite happily in his trousers. 

Bruce was panting into the floor [fog leeching out around his face], his hips canting back of their own volition. “Haahhh, fuck! Please. Stop.” He ground out. The Joker worked his tongue past that tight band of muscle, relishing in Bruce’s helpless wriggling under his hand. His respiration had been reduced to stuttering gasps. 

It was then he realized [to his absolute horror] that he was harder than he could remember being in a long while. His length was swollen and flushed a deep pink; it bounced against his trembling abdominals with every involuntary thrust of his hips. His eyes squeezed shut, as white shame boiled in his core. How could he be getting off on this? The Joker was his enemy! The monster that orchestrated Rachel’s death. An honest psychopath whose only purpose is to create chaos in every swish of his hands. As well as his very, very maleness. 

His every nerve was wrought with feelssogood, he couldn’t deny that, and there was this part of him that didn’t want it to stop [Godpleasedon’tletitstop] and that part was starting to get louder. His chest tightened, he could only hope to fucking God that the Joker remained oblivious. 

“Well what. Is. This?” Fingers wrapped around his rigid flesh, and he was coming undone at the seams. His back was arching and his hips were jerking forward and his mouth was falling open and it was all so gloriously obscene. “G-God, uhn!” He choked out. The Joker openly drooled at the wanton display, he had to wonder why he didn’t peek under that Kevlar sooner. 

“So much time wasted.” He sighed sadly. He had all the time in the world to make up for it.

“Don’t worry, Brucey.” He cooed. “I’ll give you exactly what you need.” He gave one final squeeze to that perfect cock, before [somewhat reluctantly] retracting himself completely. Bruce could only pant and shudder and wonder what the fuck the Joker was playing out. He attempted to push himself up on wobbly arms.

“Ah, ah, ah. Stay right where you are, Brucey.” He could hear the Joker shuffling about behind him, but he couldn’t see the fucking menace. He was so on edge, it hurt. He was too open, too vulnerable. “Joker.” He rasped angrily, some of his trepidation leaking into his voice.

“And now...” A low chuckle. “I want you to prepare yourself for me.” 

Bruce went stock still. His face drained of all color. “What...?” His adam's apple bobbed nervously. There was no way he meant - ”I want you to fuck yourself, Bruce! I want you to stretch yourself until you just can’t take it.” Bruce groaned at the heated words, his groin tightening deliciously.

“I-I...can’t - ”

“You will.” The snarled command had him clenching. 

He slowed his breathing. He had to do this. The Joker was getting impatient, there was no way to predict what he might do. “For Alfred.” He murmured underneath his breath. Without any further contemplation, he jammed three fingers into his mouth. He sucked on them for all he was worth and did his very best to ignore the humiliation pooling red in his cheeks.

Once his fingers were nearly dripping, he spit them out with an audible pop. He breathed deeply, attempting to coax his taut muscles into loosening. With no small amount of hesitancy, he positioned a single digit and began to push -

An honest-to-God whimper escaped him. The intrusion was not at all welcome by his body, but he pushed past the dull ache beginning to manifest in his lower extremities. He needed to be done with this, and began a shallow thrusting motion. In. Out. In. Out. He slowly slipped a second finger in to join the first. “Gnnh...” It burned, he ignored it. He had suffered through far worse, and there would be worse to come. Even so, it was too awkward to properly describe.

He spread his two fingers apart like a pair of scissors, stretching himself as best as he could. He operated from memory, as this was no different than preparing a women. Except it was entirely different. His chest heaved, his lungs flailing in his chest. Fuck, why was this so hard? He wheedled his third finger in to join the others, and almost bit his lip bloody in an attempt to silence the noises that were scrambling up his throat. “Gha!” He hissed.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. He pumped those three digits into himself until his arm began to grow numb, and that tightness started to flower under his careful ministrations. He could feel himself relaxing, the pain abating, and it was a welcome change of pace. Just as he was settling into a disjointed rhythm, he struck something, something distant and good -! 

Stars went supernova behind his eyes. He couldn’t choke down the needy cry that bubbled up. His arm buckled under him, and he careened forward. His length [abouttoburst] was tingling and sparks were traveling up his backbone and his toes were fucking curling. Bruce had never felt this, anything like this, in all his sexual encounters. 

“That’s enough.” The Joker’s said this low and raspy, and Bruce could detect the slightly heavier pitch of his breathing. His alter ego was bristling, watching, waiting for a chance, and Bruce was okay with that, because the rage he’d clung to so fiercely was starting to dwindle. He didn’t know what he would do if it left him entirely. “You’re, uh...incredibly erotic, Brucey. You put on - heh - one hell of a show.” The Joker sounded positively hungry. 

“Why don’t you turn around for me, beautiful.” Bruce huffed at the endearment, but otherwise complied. With a ragged exhale, he pushed himself back onto his haunches. It was with a great deal of caution and reluctance that he turned around to face the Joker, and his jaw near shattered against the floor. 

His nemesis was lounging [one leg bent lazily and the other stretched out], and just as naked as the day he was born [or created, because he was too inhuman to be real]. A demented grin overtook his face in one, long, scarlet curl. His engorged sex [Bruce noticed with a shameful flush] was longer and thicker than his own. It was bright and rosy, the veins standing out proudly against the slender column of flesh. A bead of pearly essence took shape at the very tip, and Bruce was hard pressed to tear his eyes away.

"Do you..." He licked his lips. "...like what you see, Brucey? He's standing at attention just for you." Bruce promptly snapped out of whatever spell had snared him. He met the neon blues of the Joker with a visible cringe, his expression one of proper horror. “Joker, what - ?” He choked out, a tremble manifesting in his hands. He was...scared. For the first time in a very long time, since donning the suit, Bruce was scared. Terrified, even. 

“Come here.” It was a simple command, one that brooked no room for argument, and yet Bruce struggled to comply. He was near frozen in fear. “Now, Bruce.” He flinched, but forced himself into action. He inched closer, his insides a nauseas mixture of cold dread and hot anger. He scraped together his final shreds of dignity, and locked eyes with the madman. A shock of electricity seemed to crackle between them. 

The Joker took him by the hips, and yanked. He was pulled flush against a shockingly big frame, their contours coming together with an audible “pop”. His naked ass settled against the slope of the Joker’s thighs, and their cocks were nestled together in the tight canyon between them. He groaned low, and it seemed to further excite the Joker. “Fu-ck, Brucey. You really know how to turn a man’s crank, if you - eh, heh - know what I mean.” The wicked words caused his face to bloom with color. 

“No, I don’t know what you mean.” He bit out. Hands were grabbing and squeezing him, spreading him apart and slipping inside - “Hah! Joker! Nngh, don’t-!” Bruce could only bite the inside of his cheek and hang on for dear life, as the Joker explored his insides with curious strokes and ground their hips together. The dual sensations [the friction!] were sinful. He felt himself get harder, if he wasn’t already hard enough to break rocks.

Shame and disgust washed through him, and Bruce wanted to scream his inner turmoil. He knew that would only add more fuel to the Joker’s proverbial fire. “Don’t hold back, Bruce. Don’t even try.” And somehow, that was a promise. Those deft digits popped out of him, and he was being shifted. Bruce inhaled sharply as he felt a [throbbingpulsinghot] cock pushing in between the flushed swell of his cheeks. It was the single most frightening moment of his entire adult life. 

He tensed up, his heart all but stopping. “There’s something I need you to do for me.” Bruce could hear him smiling. His voice shook in his throat, but he forced the question out. “What?” He breathed harshly. “I want...” He let the silence stretch for a moment. “...to ride me, Bruce.” His voice was low and sharp and demanded action. "Nice. And. Slo-o-ow." He punctuated each word with a small thrust.

Bruce closed his eyes. His bat was eerily silent, but he could feel the potent mixture of hatred and promise of vengeance brewing just under his skin. It warmed him, called out to him, and he wanted nothing more than to set it free. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. He would play the Joker’s twisted game, give up this little piece of himself. Alfred deserved that much, at least. “I...I’ve never...” He grit his teeth, mortification whipping through him.

The Joker cackled. “Don’t worry your pretty face. I’ll teach you everything you need-to-know.” 

He felt that barely pressure against him, and it was like his entire world was falling apart. He was doing this, he was allowing this to happen. “Now you just have to...” He was suddenly being pierced, and [oh, fuck] it hurt. “...ease yourself down, just like that.” The Joker was muttering into his ear with a tangible sweetness, his stomach to churned. Bruce couldn’t swallow the litany of broken sounds, but he didn’t stop. He slowly sank down, and the burn intensified with every inch that breached him. “That’s it, Brucey. Are you, uh...sure you haven’t done this before?” The Joker giggled. 

Bruce was about to snarl a reply, but the Joker was thrusting, and God! It was savage and unexpected. “Ahn!” Bruce bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, the Joker was instantly there to lap it up. “Oh, Brucey.” The velvet tip of his tongue traced the lines of his face. “You’re...so much more than I could’ve hoped for.” Hot, open kisses were pressed to his throat. “It’s like you were made...just for me.” 

Bruce wanted to snort, except he couldn’t. It felt as though he were split down the middle by something steel and mammoth - sized. He squirmed in the Joker’s lap. “And now you just need to...” Hands found purchase around his hips. “...move.” And they were moving. 

He was being lifted, the Joker's turgid need slipping from him with relative ease. Just as the feeling of fullness began to abate, he was sinking back down. "Ah, nnngh!" Bruce breathed out shakily, gripping the Joker's bare shoulders hard enough to leave the ghosts of his fingers. 

"How about we...pick up the pace, hm?" That was his only warning. Bruce gasped out a curse as he was bounced roughly and suddenly. That spot in him was jolted, and he was seeing stars. Bruce didn’t have time to catch his breath, to wrap his mind around the fire licking through him, before it was happening again. “J-Joker, sto-stop!” He got out, his hips bucking, his back arching. His body was betraying him, giving in to the Joker, there was nothing to be done. Not a thing. 

The Joker gave a gleeful cackle at the gorgeous, decadent, reactions he was getting from his Bruce. His Bats. He gave a particularly brutal thrust, and delighted in the sharp cry that was yielded to him. "Stop? Now why would I want to do something like that?" He threaded his fingers through coffee curls, grabbing a handful and yanking -

"Mmph!" His mouth was taken in a ferocious kiss. A tongue [all smolder and force] pushed past his lips, swiping over each tooth, stroked along the ridges of his oral roof, and entangled itself with his own tongue in a battle for dominance [which he quickly lost, for lack of trying]. It was all Bruce could do to stay conscious, as his mouth and body were thoroughly plundered. 

He was bounced [up, down, up, down, up, down] onto the Joker’s unyielding need, and it felt as if he was being speared more deeply with every descent. That perfect bundle inside him was battered with every upward jolt, and it was melting his eyeballs in their sockets. Bruce tore his lips free with a heaving gasp, the need for air overcoming him.

“I-I can’t...! Fuck, please!” Bruce had been reduced to begging. For what, he could no longer be certain. 

“You’re, uh...going to have to be a bit more specific.” The Joker rumbled against the sinewy curve of his neck. Bruce wanted to reply with something sarcastic and snarky, preserving the remaining tatters of his dignity in any way possible, but he never got the chance. The world was suddenly tilting. 

His back smacked the floor and his thighs split open under confident hands and he was being literally pounded into the ground. Bruce was on the verge of openly sobbing. He couldn’t stop the bowing of his back, the shameless twisting of his hips, the moans dribbling from his lips like honey from a hive. His voice was wet and fractured, and his eyes were glistening with unshed moisture. The Joker was hammering him like he was an unruly nail, his strokes long and impossibly hard, and he didn’t know how much more he could take.

He had never experienced anything so mind blowing [earth shattering, frighteningly euphoric] in his entire life. He knew no other experience would ever compare, and that was possibly the worst realization of the night. 

The hatred of his inner bat was colder than arctic temperatures, it weighed his bones down, but the pleasure burned bright. He hated it. “Please...stop -!” He breathed, meeting the sizzling blues above him with an expression of subdued animosity. They gleamed at him from within charcoal pits. “I really don’t want to stop, Brucey. Not now, not ever.” There was steely resolve in those words. 

They escalating into something primal and violent. Bruce couldn’t withhold the scream. Their mouths clashed in a burst of biting teeth and lashing tongues, and Bruce fought back for all he was worth. The Joker ravaged his body with a ferocity that only an agent of chaos would possess. He could feel his groin tightening, his essence boiling inside of him, and it would only be a matter of moments before he burst. 

They moved as one unit. Their bodies rocked against [into] each other, and it was hot and wrong and absolutely sublime. His skull fell back against the wood floorboards, and his mouth clicked open in a silent cry for [ohgodpleasemorenow]. “That’s it, Brucey. You’re perfect and you’re mine!” That feral proclamation of possession [whispered in his ear] was all he needed to fall apart completely. 

His muscles tightened around the Joker, milking him for all he was worth, as his orgasm rocked through him with enough force to tilt the world on its axis. Thick ropes of seed spurted from the ruddy head of his member, coating their chests in a spritz of white. He could feel himself filling up with the Joker’s liquid heat [painting his insides, spilling out of him] and it was too much. This madman, this murderous psychopath, had just fucked him into his own fucking floor. Had just claimed him, stolen something irreplaceable. “Oh, heh - eh, heh, heh - was that, uh...a bit too much to handle?” The Joker was grinning from ear to ear, his expression one of sunshiney triumph.

Bruce had never felt such a strange and overwhelming combination of fury, nausea, post-coital-bliss, and insatiable longing for more. He fell slack, the will to fight melting out of him with every drop of cum that dribbled down his thighs. He glared at the Joker through hooded eyes. “You...” He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

The Joker’s grin sharpened. “Speechless, are we?” He gave a cheerful titter, before tugging his purple slacks on. Bruce groaned quietly. His eyelids felt as if lead weights had been attached to them, his brain filled with warm cotton. He knew he shouldn’t, it would put him in a terrifyingly vulnerable position, but he just wanted to sleep. 

He was so exhausted. The Joker’s smiling face started to blur over him, and he felt a spike of panic. “Ah, I might have went a bit too hard on you, Brucey. Sorry ‘bout that.” Somehow, he didn’t sound very apologetic. He sounded pretty pleased with himself. Bruce wanted so badly to punch the crazy out of this clown, but his fingers refused to make a decent fist. The world was fast fading.

Bruce felt a cold stab of fear. He was losing consciousness. “Oh, don’t. You. Worry. I’ll take very good care of you.” Dear God, he was fucked.

x

When he woke, it was to the familiar dent of his mattress and the subtle weight of his sheets. It took a considerable effort to crack his eyes open, and the blinding beam of sunlight that greeted him was hardly welcomed. He rolled over, and nearly shouted at the surge of pain that shot through him.

He was assaulted by a rush of memories he would’ve preferred to stay forgotten. Color flooded his cheeks, and a snarl shaped his mouth into something fierce. That son of a bitch. The Joker had...he...

He couldn’t even bring himself to think it! The Joker would pay, of that he would make certain. The Bat seemed to agree wholeheartedly, rattling the iron bars of his cage with anticipation alone. Bruce pushed the sheets back and [very gingerly] climbed out of bed. Simply standing caused him more pain than he cared to admit, but the clenching of his jaw spoke volumes. Steeling himself, he began a careful limp to the master bathroom. Every step caused knifelike jolt to light him up. 

He stepped up to the sink, and the man returning his stare was one he didn’t recognize. Bruce could only mouth awkwardly at the state of himself. He had been injured so many times before [almost too many to count], but not like this. Never like this. His throat was entirely encased in a necklace of purpling splotches [“Love bites, Brucey.”] and teeth indentations peppered his shoulders. 

His upper arms and hips bore dark fingers, his thighs were nearly black. He was almost afraid to see the damage done to his backside. Breathing in, he turned and glanced back over his shoulder. His choked on nothing. “Joker.” He seethed.

Carefully [almost surgically] cut into his right cheek, with what he guessed was a box cutter, was a series of words. They read, “Property of the Joker.”

And Bruce was seeing blood red. He snatched a towel from the rack with more force than was strictly necessary, and whipped around just in time to catch the eye of Alfred, who stood quite frozen in the doorway.

“My word, Master Wayne. I really can’t leave you alone for a single night, can I?”


End file.
